


At Least I Won't Remember This

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Courfeyrac is a kinky bastard, Fucking, M/M, Or Is It?, Wetting, and Grantaire is drunk but whats new, and Irish, and smarmy, sort of watersports?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire finds himself on the winning end of a bet he didn't make, and he's a little too drunk to know how he feels about how he went about winning it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Wet

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on Round 3 of the kink meme: Grantaire / any Amis who would want to corner our loveable drunk and teach him the severity that too much liquor can have upon his bladder. Basically I'm asking for pain/discomfort, embarrassment, and possibly wetting ones-self if the "lesson" leads to that.

Grantaire is  _drunk._  
  
This in itself isn't unusual. It would be far, far stranger were someone to witness Grantaire fully sober, especially at this time of night while Enjolras is up at the head of the table spouting off about revolution and France and blah blah blah. But the only thing he can think, as a certain lithe someone eclipses his view of his fiery Apollo.  
  
"Hnn?" He blinks sluggishly, the bottle still hanging from his lips as he furrows his eyebrows up at the culprit. Courfeyrac just grins, dropping neatly into the seat beside him and scooting as close as he can. Grantaire, being, well, drunk, and not opposed to human contact any day anyways, does nothing to stop him.  
  
"Someone is eloquent today," the other man teases, a lilt to his words. Grantaire struggles to make some sort of witty comeback through the pleasant haze of his third bottle of the night, but his eyes are drawn back to Enjolras as he bursts into flame again, ranting about something Marius must have brought up- Napolean then, something that gets under his skin, something that's making Grantaire's pants uncomfortably tight-  
  
The hand on his thigh certainly isn't helping.  
  
He sideeyes the Irishman warily, but he's intrigued. Enjolras remains the first thing on his mind- he looks back to him, humming, "I don't know what you're playing at... but I've never met a lush who doesn't like to play."  
  
"That's what I like to hear."  
  
That is, apparently, invitation enough. Courfeyrac's hand has already deftly undone his button, dragging his zipper down and slipping beneath his jeans to fondle his cock through the thin material of his raggedy boxers. He bites on his lip to suppress a groan. He's always been a loud one.  
  
If he hadn't been so wasted, and if he had any chance of remembering this in the morning, Grantaire would have made that conscious effort to forget Enjolras just for tonight and dragged his friend upstairs to his little flat over the bar, which was both untidy and probably unsanitary although most of his vomit never made it up there, as he usually slept off his drunken escapades and then his hangovers downstairs with the actual customers. (Thank God for Eponine and her generous discounts.) Courfeyrac would probably really appreciate his volume in bed, the filthy words that streamed from his mouth, and he probably wouldn't mind, either, that they were so very clearly directed on a man that he was not. Courfeyrac was, well, a bit of a slut. He knew his way around. He did some pretty unorthodox things in bed, and roleplaying couldn't possibly be the only exception. Grantaire can't remember any good reason right now not to sleep with him.  
  
He's not sure he'll remember any once he's sober, either. He's attractive. He puts up with- no, almost encourages Grantaire's drinking, occasionally even going shot for shot with him before going home with a leggy blonde or whoever is closest to him, male or female, when he gets to the point in his night when he decides that he wants sex, and he wants it then.  
  
Either way, his hand is curled around him and moving  _just right,_  God, that feels good, and Grantaire mutters this under his breath as he sets his bottle down and leans back in his chair.  
  
Courfeyrac just fixes him with that charming, crooked smile. If there's a mischievous gleam in his eye, Grantaire doesn't care to notice right now.

It isn't until he's panting, squirming in his seat and praying to the God he doesn't believe in that Enjolras won't notice him having a fit in the corner like this, that Courfeyrac's heel presses to his pelvis.  
  
This isn't unpleasant at first. Really, it's rather nice. The pressure is firm, gentle kneading circles over his belly - he hasn't eaten all night and the alcohol has gone straight through him - but then, it slips lower, and he grimaces at the twinge in his apparently full bladder (when had that happened? probably a bottle ago...) as he tries to bat the other man's hand away.  
  
"What was that?" Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, his smile just slightly more evil now. He ignores Grantaire's silent protest and tightens the hand on his cock, making him momentarily forget what exactly he was protesting  _about_  because Jesus, no wonder so many people wanted to get into bed with this man. He knew what he was doing.  
  
"Ahh-" he says helpfully, instead of what's going through his mind. His fingers tighten uselessly at the sides of his chair. Enjolras has stepped off of the table now and Courfeyrac's ministrations have garnered his full attention. This is a good thing and a bad thing - because soon he's going to come, and he's going to make noise, and people are sure as hell going to know then if they don't know now what the two of them have gotten up to right under their noses.  
  
Cheeky bastard that he is, the Irishman just shrugs, pressing the heel of his hand harder up against his bladder. There's no way that that's an accident, but Grantaire is  _drunk_  need he remind you, and he doesn't ask questions.  
  
"Don't," he warns instead, eyes fluttering shut as he pushes up against both hands anyways. It's torture, knowing now how badly he has to piss and being unable to focus on the pleasure stinging at the tip of his oversensitive cock. It's pulsing in Courfeyrac's hand, hot and hard and ahh is right, he's so very close and so unable to -   
  
"You know, Enjolras and I made a little bet yesterday," the other man begins conversationally, as if this is the perfect time for conversation when really Grantaire wants to punch him a little bit and then fuck that smarmy mouth of his. But now he's even more distracted, because Enjolras- Enjolras doesn't gamble... "I was hoping you'd help me prove him wrong. I'll split the fifty with you."  
  
Grantaire swallows, attempting once more to focus. Courfeyrac has stopped stroking him altogether now, is even tucking him back into his pants- but his bladder throbs with need and he can't even complain. Ugh. When had it gotten this bad? He's not even sure if he should be standing up right now, because if he does... "Twenty five bucks'll get me a round or two," he agrees, licking his lips. His eyes dart over Courfeyrac's catlike features, those splendid hands as they withdraw only to come back with twice the force as he straddles Grantaire's lap, making the drunk's eyes go wide.  
  
"What are you-!" he finally asks, alarmed and making a strangled noise as he clamps down before he can embarrass himself. He's squirming desperately, trying to dislodge this new, unsettling weight, feeling suddenly hot and panicked. Where is the nearest bathroom, again? Gods, he is drunk. His muscles quiver nervously and Courfeyrac doesn't relent. His lips descend on his ear, nipping, sucking, breathing on the lobe and Grantaire's cock is so conflicted.  
  
"Twenty five bucks, and I'll ride you," he promises, voice gone low and husky. Grantaire briefly considers using that twenty five dollars to ask this man for tips because if  _he_  could do that with his voice at will, even Enjolras wouldn't be safe.

"Okay." With a swallow, he leans back again and lets him do what he pleases. He has a feeling that this isn't going to end well, but then, of course, he's a cynic. He's obligated.  
  
"This is what we're gonna do," Courfeyrac says cheerfully, pulling back and casually leaning his hand a tad more firmly down against him. He nearly whimpers, feeling a flush crawl up his cheeks in preemptive embarrassment, because he can already sketch out where this is headed. "I'm going to make some loud comment about your drinking habits. Sternly," he pauses to add, nodding to himself. "He'll like that. And then I'm going to do  _this-"_  
  
That hand, that hand is evil itself. Grantaire finds that his control isn't as iron as he'd like right now. A spurt escapes him, dampening the front of his boxers, and Courfeyrac positively beams at him for it.  
  
"Exactly. And then I get to take you upstairs and we can get you out of those wet pants. Now. Look properly abashed."  
  
Courfeyrac is the one who should look abashed, he thinks helplessly, groaning for real this time as he squeezes his eyes shut and gives in to this half-assed plan of his. It couldn't really be the money he was after, or the sex - he had a ready supply of both, and Grantaire wouldn't have said no even if he were sober - but whatever his real motive is, Courfeyrac is doing a fine job of embarrassing the piss out of him. Literally.  
  
The sex had better be really fucking good, or he's going to kill him come morning.  
  
He hears that husky voice, no longer husky, drawling some reprimand that he couldn't give less of a damn about because  _nonononono_ , shit, no, he can't do this, he takes it back, he can  _feel_ Enjolras eyes on him and what he wouldn't do for that on any other day when he wasn't about to -  
  
Courfeyrac's pressure gets the best of him. He whimpers as his bladder gives, urine hissing into the front of his jeans and soaking through the fabric in a matter of seconds. This, this is truly mortifying. For all that he's a drunk, he's never pissed himself. Not once. Not in public, anyways, but nobody has to know about the time he'd woken up with soggy sheets to go with his hangover. And now he can feel it rolling hotly down his thighs, ruining the chair, the floor below him, filling his  _shoes,_  ugh, he really hadn't thought this through had he?  
  
The majority of the other patrons of the bar are unaware of Grantaire's humiliating crisis in the corner. But Enjolras is watching. He can feel it.  
  
As for Courfeyrac, he looks wildly pleased with himself, getting up off of Grantaire's lap and waltzing over presumably to take the cash from Enjolras' shell shocked fingers before returning- how on earth had he avoided getting any piss on him? he'd been sitting  _in his lap! -_ and leaning down to nip at Grantaire's lower lip.  
  
"Let's cash in your winnings, then, shall we?"


	2. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am only slightly sorry for the shitty quality of this porn. You have no idea the trouble it gave me, idek why it was so hard to write.

 Courfeyrac, true to his word, pins Grantaire to the door as soon as he can slam it shut and gives him one of the most mind-numbing makeout sessions of his entire life.

The drunkard moans helplessly as that supple body presses up against his, the damp of his jeans becoming the damp on _their_ jeans rather quickly. Courfeyrac doesn't seem to mind. His tongue is thrusting into his mouth, his hands are tight in his hair, and he's beaten Grantaire to the punch with words like “God, I can't believe you went along with that, you're _brilliant,_ I _want_ you-”

And no one's ever really wanted Grantaire before, not like that, so he can hardly be blamed for pressing right back and taking all he can.

Normally he would tease him for the lilt in his voice, but with the Irishman dropping to his knees before him and mouthing over the wet bulge between his legs he can hardly complain. He tries anyways. “That's disgusting-”

“Don't judge,” Courf grins, and deftly unzips him. Somehow he manages to get the clinging fabric down around his ankles in seconds flat, his hands smoothing up the insides of Grantaire's sticky thighs. “I've got so much blackmail on you right now it's not even funny.”

It's a little bit funny, actually. He's not bluffing. Courfeyrac knows the majority of his most humiliating secrets, more even than Eponine. But he'd never breathe a word, and they both know it.

He can still feel his pulse in his cock as he leans heavily back against the door, trying to regain some measure of composure even as he spreads his legs in less-than-subtle invitation. That sinful tongue is mapping his thighs, all the way up to the crease where they meet the rest of his body, and he makes a face as Courfeyrac's nose brushes up against his length and then his balls, nuzzling there. It's uncomfortably arousing, to say the least, especially with the memory of Enjolras' flushed face turning quickly away as they'd passed on their way up the stairs.

“Touche,” he hears himself mumble, a low sound that deepens with the shape of a mouth molding around the oversensitive head of his cock. He tips his head back, swimming in a sea of confused emotions and lust he doesn't know what to do with, except to scrabble at Courfeyrac's curly hair (god, even his hair is smarmy, that git) and pull him down. He goes willingly.

This is the best blowjob he's had in his entire life, and he's fifteen seconds in.

Or maybe he's just really drunk. That's got to account for some of it, panting and swallowing down air as Courfeyrac swallows down his cock like he was fucking born to do this and how is it even legal to be this good at sex? Enjolras would probably be awful at sex – no, nevermind. Experience be damned Enjolras is good at everything, everything except tact, he's horrible at tact, and is that footsteps he really hopes it's not footsteps, he doesn't need Eponine walking in on him for the second time this month-

But he can't even think about Enjolras (Gasp! Blasphemy!) right now, or anything really, because Courfeyrac is possibly the only person in the history of the world that the No Teeth Rule does not apply to (that should hurt why does it feel good why, fuck-!) and Grantaire is quickly being reduced to a hyperventilating, shivering wreck against the wood of the door behind him.

Sucking to the tip and releasing it with an obscene pop that Grantaire swears people in China probably just heard, the Irishman backs and takes him in hand, stroking lazily as he gazes up at him with something in the smirk family adorning his features. “No? Well, I suppose it's not as fun if you don't remember this tomorrow.”

As he talks he pumps, wrist twisting, way too casual and way too good at this, the side of his thumb brushing just there under the head so softly, _oh shit_ that's good-

Enjolras' hands are soft and he can imagine (he does imagine) them pushing his thighs apart, unbearably gentle, somehow still possessive. Courfeyrac plays the part well whether he means to or not – his teeth graze inside his thighs and lick up the remnants of his shame, something that shouldn't turn him on nearly as much as it actually does. He could melt right now into a puddle on the floor and be happy, and maybe tomorrow he'll wake up with the vague memory of golden hair and a face between his legs and he can pretend, and Courfeyrac will let him because otherwise what is he going to use that brand new tube of lube for? He's certainly not going to go around giving anyone and everyone the time of day.

Courfeyrac is sort of an exception. To every rule.

Who in their right mind would turn down a night with him?

At any rate, he's left hard and throbbing and clutching after him as he pulls away and all but drags Grantaire to the bed, bending him over the side as casually as anything. “I don't think I could forget head like that,” he grunts, dazed, as though anyone cares what's going on in his head anyways. At least Courfeyrac makes like he does while the cap clicks open and lube coats his fingers where R can't see them.

It doesn't really occur to him that this should be awkward because it's Courf and nothing is ever awkward with him unless he wants it to be.

“I learned from the masters,” the Irishman's wink can be heard in his voice, which is still pitched unfairly low and his fingers are skimming up his inner thigh so teasingly light that his knees almost buckle with the insane urge to press back on them, take them right up to the knuckle. He keeps up conversation with himself as he works him open, too, the tips dipping in shallowly and pulling away too quickly. He groans uselessly, settling in for the torture he should have known was coming.

“You're so responsive,” he purrs when the first finger slides up at long last and Grantaire is dizzy with the alcohol and the lust thickening his blood, back curving like a bow. “I bet he'd like that. Don't you? He'd love if you spread your legs and begged for him.”

 _You can if you want_ goes unsaid. Here, with Courfeyrac and his own hand between his cock and the sheets, fisting minutely, he is safe and no one will know. He could live out every depraved fantasy he'd never dared to paint like this...

“I d-doubt that-” He sucks in a sharp breath, breaking off with a whine. Courfeyrac crooks his second finger again innocently and presses on the nerve, rubbing the pad of his finger into it like it's some kind of fucking joke and Grantaire isn't dangerously close to coming all over himself already.

Courfeyrac has the audacity to laugh. He pulls Grantaire apart with his fingers and presses his tongue to the small of his back and says, “You're worse than him, you know?”

Who even fucking cares what that meant, as long as he never stopped doing that with his- _fuck._

“Cour-” he starts, garbled and desperate and sure that his face will be red for the rest of his life now, and miraculously there is the sound of a wrapper crinkling. He looks over his shoulder, certain he looks about as desperate as he feels, still half-imagining pale fingers curled around his hips and that revolutionary mouth hot on his neck. Courfeyrac glances up, still smiling, rolling the condom on over his cock. “Just fucking get on with it.”

“Someone's impatient,” he tsks, obviously having great fun. “Calm down, or I'll have to spank you.” He winks as he presses up to his back again and his hands take the place of Enjolras' on his hips. In the back of his mind he remembers that the deal had been somewhat different, and he's pretty sure that it should have been his fingers making the other man squirm and gasp, but he's also pretty sure that he wasn't even a little sober enough to go about such a delicate task. And anyhow, he likes to imagine his golden god this way, too, and even if he's not imagining Enjolras' and those sinful lips (and those sinful pants, Jesus) Courfeyrac is hardly unattractive and there's no question that he's going to make this good for him.

“You'd like that you kinky bastard,” he mumbles, bracing himself on his arms as he's bent over and Courfeyrac enters in one slow thrust, like the drag of his fingers but so much heavier and it stings but it fills him up the way he wants it so bad when he's squirming and hard in his seat watching Enjolras wax poetic about the state of the healthcare system.

He's brought forcefully back to reality by the first sharp thrust, right down in the right direction, drawing a startled stream of hissed-groaned-whimpered curses. Precum leaks wet on his already damp thigh, staining his sheets. He makes fists in them, opening his mouth to let himself breathe as he pushes back despite the tinge of pain – he's always been a bit of a masochist, anyways, eh? Courfeyrac bends over him and makes the filthiest, most approving noise in his ear, the kind that makes him shiver, makes his muscles tighten and draw him in.

He swears he hears the door creak but he's way too far gone to care.

_Let Eponine see if she wants._

“Why haven't we done this before?” the Irishman asks, voice strained but cheeky as ever and Grantaire fights the urge to reach back and yank him down by the hair. It's still burning but he's ready, impatient, his imagination running wild with smears of red and gold paint and Enjolras' blue eyes.

“Because you're a whore,” he mutters instead, and they laugh, and fuck, that feels good too.

They rock together, sweating and panting, and at some point Grantaire gets the idea to actually clamber up onto the bed and grip the headboard for dear life as Courfeyrac slams into him from behind, his teeth leaving crescent marks in his shoulder. He waits for it to be awkward. It's not.

With every thrust and throb he feels his ass clench around him like he never wants him to leave, involuntary and erotic. Forehead pressed to the cool wood in front of him, mouth gaping as he struggles to breathe and moan nonsense mixed with one name then two, he spreads his legs as wide as they'll go and lets the other man drive into him until it's all he can feel, heat and pressure so deep inside him, unbearable, pleasure spiking through his veins in a sudden warning just before-

The sound he makes is guttural, drawn from the center of his chest and deep in the pit of his stomach where all of those uncomfortable desires make their homes. With one thrust, two, _three_ Courfeyrac hisses a few well-chosen words before the condom expands inside him.

Well, at least that end is clean.

But considering what he's been through today already, there's no shame in lying in a puddle of his own cooling come. Or at least he tells himself that, because there's no way he's lifting his head from this pillow. He mumbles something so muffled that Courfeyrac leans closer as he collapses beside him, still breathless and grinning. “What was that?”

“Iwant my money,” Grantaire mutters just slightly louder. Courf coos in his ear, tugging a curl.

“Aren't you just the cutest little whore.”

He lifts his head to glare at him at last, utterly sated, rolling over and attempting to smother him with his pillow. They tumble together, wrestling like they have any energy left and completely disregarding the fact that they're both still naked and the whole room smells like sex as well as booze now. Finally, triumphant, Grantaire pins his hands over his head and smirks.

“I win.” Then, for good measure (though not his cleverest moment, “Slut.”

“Fuck you! I would make a great prostitute.”

“You _are_ a great prostitute, sweetheart.”

“Aw, stop, you're making me blush...”

\---

Smelling distinctly like Grantaire, Courfeyrac leaves his drunken friend to sleep it off in disheveled clothes with the air of a very satisfied cat. He pauses to clap Enjolras on the shoulder, enjoying the frozen, deer-in-the-headlights look on his face almost more than his blatant arousal, and smiles.

“Good show?” he asks innocently. Fidgeting and struggling to keep his composure, Enjolras stares back, seemingly lost for words.

“I- wasn't-” he starts, faltering and lowering his eyes. Courfeyrac just pats his cheek, tsking.

“Sure you weren't. Sure.” He takes his hand away and grins to himself, starting to swagger off down the hallway to look for his next source of entertainment – but not before calling behind him, “He said your name when he came. Just so you know. G'night, Enjy!”

And Enjolras is left to stare between his back and the door, wondering what in the hell just happened and why he had allowed it to happen at all and most of all what he's going to do with the erection currently pressed insistently to his zipper.

Goddamn Courfeyrac. He's never gambling again.


End file.
